


I'm Proud Of Us

by hellhoundsprey



Series: twinsanity!verse [5]
Category: Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Domestic Violence, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2018-08-31 18:42:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8589508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: Sam and Dean have a talk after John's funeral.(This story takes place fifteen years after WIDPMHIWY.)The second chapter is a sequel to the verse and takes place about five years later.





	1. I'm Proud Of Us

The air is thick outside; thicker inside. Sam has to close the door though or the rain will enter along with him, halfway rotten leaves and distant particles he hoped to leave where he came from. Death, unfortunately, is a scent you cannot shake off that easily. It clings to you, sticks to things deeper than skin.

Sam sighs and sheds his jacket as if it would make a difference.

“How was it?”

“Lonely.”

Dean scoffs, a glass in his hand and yet dry. “Yeah. That’s his style.”

Sam frowns at the sight. He contemplates chastising his man for drinking at eleven in the morning, his favorite ex-alcoholic for drinking at all. He ends up deciding against it. Not today. It could be worse. At least Dean is still here. Approachable.

The image of Dean smirking to himself and his drink makes Sam look away. Tip of his own shoes. Graveyard dirt might still be stuck to the soles.

Despite all the things he doesn’t say, Sam cannot _not_ mention, “It woulda been nice if you’d come along. At least for a moment or two. Could have waited in the car.”

“I’ve waited in that goddamn car most of my life, Sam.” Sound of swallowing. Gruffer voice. "He’s dead if I’m there or not. Don’t suppose his hand was like, danglin’ from the coffin, waitin’ for his son to hold it.”

“Dean—”

“You’re not on holy ground anymore. Welcome back to the not so prosaic end of the rainbow.”

Sam raises his eyes high enough to watch Dean refilling his glass. Sees the soles of socked feet that are crossed on top of the bed, sees jeans and flannel and generic t-shirt. Old clothes. Worn out and unsuitable for work. Dean hasn’t left the house ever since they got the phone call three days ago.

Sam walks over to their bed, to Dean, and he extends his arm and curls his fingers in a demanding gesture. “Gimme that.”

“Get your own.”

“You’ve had enough.”

Dean hadn’t—there’s barely anything gone yet. A good brand, too, instead of the usual acid-like stuff. Not a usual relapse. Well, it’s not a usual anything, recently.

It’s way too easy to snatch the glass from Dean’s fingers. In the corner of his eyes and with the whiskey already halfway in his mouth, Sam catches a glimpse of sadness-clouded green on him, of stubble and a lopsided hint of a smile. He can’t drain the two fingers’ width fast enough.

The worn mattress squeaks under his weight and Sam lets his body droop forward, elbows on knees, and he wishes he could be anywhere but here.

“Was he there, too?”

Sam’s shoulders shrug weakly. “You would know if you woulda come along.”

“Very funny.” They both know nothing is funny. Can joke and pull faces but in the end, they both know it’s a sad and brief escape. “Spit it out, man, I’m not askin’ twice.”

“You’re not ‘asking’ at all,” Sam snorts, drags his hand across his forehead.

“Damn right. So was he, Sam, or was he not there?”

Tight grip on glass. Tighter glare to his right. “If he woulda been, would that make you feel better about yourself? Would that be a good enough excuse to pass up your dad’s funeral?”

“Oh, spare me.” Dean’s snarl smells like misery. Sam’s stomach turns at it.

“I still can’t believe you didn’t go.”

Dean’s arms are crossed in front of his chest, bulging and unreachable, untouchable. Wrinkles between his eyebrows cut deep enough to hurt. “Sorry I’m not Mr. Perfect.”

“You’re not even Mr. Respectable at this point.”

A bark of laughter. “Oh wow, ouch! And what are you gonna do about it, huh? You wanna get rid of me? The creativity so far’s impressive, so better think of something good.”

Whiskey pours. Sam’s eyebrows twitch high up and then down. Corners of mouth move along. “You really wanna go there? Now? Seriously?”

Chuckle. “No time like the present, Sammy.”

The glass is empty again too fast. Sam keeps the bottle in his right, pours again. “I’m really not in the mood right now.”

Autumn whips against the thin walls of their home. It’s small, yeah, but now that it’s only the two of them in here it seems so impossibly big. Even huddled so close (Dean’s legs lying against Sam’s lower back) there are miles in between. Sam curls lower, deeper, as if it could protect him. The posture is convenient for wetness to collect in the center of his eyes, the highest point of their convex shape now being their lowest. The whiskey burns his stomach. It’s not enough.

Dean watches while Sam drinks. It used to be the other way around. They don’t know how to do it in this arrangement. Sam hasn’t exactly touched a drink with this much intent in...well, ever. Stupid to start with it now, maybe. He is too exhausted to give a damn though.

The room is heavy with moments and words and memories. Both of their heads are buzzing with them, must be. Sam brings the glass to his lips again and wonders if Dean cried while he was by himself today.

“You might wanna slow down there,” Dean advises, but doesn’t care to make a move to stop Sam either.

“I woulda needed you,” Sam mumbles into his glass. Is afraid to blink, is afraid of tears that will form and drop if he does.

Dean’s answer is a click of throat, tight puff of an exhale. Clothes shift. Dean is turning away.

Sam blinks. Drop. “It was hard.”

“Nobody forced you to go,” reminds Dean.

Frown, blink, burn, clenching fingers around glass. Sam doesn’t know why he whispers. “He was like a father to me.”

“Shut up.”

Sam has seen Dean angry a lot of times (many more times than necessary or healthy) and this is just another one of those times. Knife-sharp glare, face so tense it seems to be about to combust. Arms strung tight. If Dean would start throwing punches here and now, Sam would neither be surprised nor particularly opposed to it.

Maybe that would be good—would Sam give the opportunity to fight right back. Maybe he would have the balls to do it; here, now.

“These past few years,” Sam says, “I’ve been more of a son to him than you.”

When Dean moves, it’s quick and it’s efficient, rough, and Sam flinches back and away in reflex—but Dean didn’t reach for him: white knuckled grip on his own jeans, forefinger of the other hand pointing. Dean’s shin is exposed now. The right one.

Dean has a broad, fleshy-white strip of skin where no hair ever grew, and Sam’s eyes are pinned there.

“He ever gave you something like this?”

Sam says nothing.

“Or maybe something like this? Or this?”

Wrist (Sam used to run his fingers over the odd bump there). Forever-crooked right ring finger.

“Or this? Or this?”

Sam turns his head away when Dean lifts his t-shirt.

“Fucking _look at me_.”

Sam does, unwillingly, but he deserves it.

“C’mon, don’t be shy,” Dean hums (graveyard-thick). “Showed you mine, now show me yours. What’d he give _you_ , huh?”

Eye contact. No answer.

“Nothing? Not a single scratch, huh?”

Dean drops and flattens his shirt all calmly. Instead of leaning back into the cushions propped up in his back, he leans forward, into Sam’s space. Sam doesn’t give him the satisfaction of offering a single inch of retreat.

They haven’t been this close in weeks. Maybe months. Sad, thinks Sam. This close, Sam sees all that sleep deprivation, the too much coffee, the too little food, the too much thinking about things nobody should have to think about.

“You think you can play nurse for a few months an’ that gives you any right to tell _me_ about _my_ dad? Really? Really, Sam?”

“I know—”

“You know _nothing_.”

Twitching upper lip. Sam tries hard not to look away.

“What you pitter-pattered through here recently—you expect an award for that? For not complaining, for being so very selfless? Hallelujah, you’re such a saint, such a. Good. Son.”

Dean taps Sam on the cheek with the last two words; flat palm, barely a sting. Sam’s muscles lock and freeze instead of deciding for either flight or fight. Throat tight, sweat, adrenaline. Oh, his therapist would be so disappointed if she saw him right now.

“You don’t _get_ to be self-righteous,” bites Dean, hiss and close and not caring that Sam averted his eyes. “You don’t _get_ to tell me about him. You don’t _deserve_ to call him your father, Sam, ’cause if he would’ve treated you like his son, you would’ve bailed on us _years_ _ago_.”

Tight mouth. “You let him die alone.”

“No, I was _always_ there for him. I took care of him when _nobody else would_.”

“When he needed you _most_ , you—”

“ _Sam_.”

Sam turns away again with his next exhale; harsh, frustrated. If they weren’t so goddamn grown up already, he could forgive himself. Ducking, following. Dean uses tiniest changes in tone or volume to whip Sam around like a dog. Difficult to say if it’s worse now that they haven’t fought in...how long has it been?

Time has been funny lately. Work, hospital, bed. Endless. Tiring. Dean sounds tired too. Extra hours. The bills are adding up to something horrifying.

“Don’t get me wrong, alright? Everything in me screamed to do something. Anything. But I couldn’t. I was done.”

Dean takes a deep deep breath, and his face scrunches up tight with the exhale that keeps from turning into a sigh.

“I have given so. _Much_. But seeing him like that? Dying? Helpless? No could do.” Open eyes on the bed, not Sam. Almost-shy, quiet. “I’ve always loved him. Still do. ’Cause that’s what a son does. And as much as it _hurt_ to see him dying, it felt good, too.” Dean takes a moment, maybe to test the words out in his head, before he clarifies, with his eyes on Sam now as if in search for understanding, of absolution, “I enjoyed seeing him suffer.”

Despite all he knows, all he has seen, Sam feels sick.

“Blame me all you want. I couldn’t care less. But don’t you dare tell me you felt like his son. Don’t.”

“I feel like we should have had this talk weeks ago.”

Sad smile, eyes down. Self-evident, “Nah.” More quiet, “Wouldn’t have changed a thing.”

“I could’ve been there for you,” breathes Sam. “We could have gone through this _together_ , Dean.”

“You think you’re the cure for everything, don’t you?”

Sam hesitates, then stops.

Dean’s eyes are on him, his mouth lax while he speaks. “You think,” says Dean, “that all it takes is a little love, a few good years, and suddenly all is forgiven? That any of us’ll be _fixed_? You think you’re _that_ important to me?”

Sam blinks.

“Maybe I only kept you around for you to look after Dad. Maybe that’s all there was to it.”

Dimples, pain, huffed breath. “No.”

“Oh, I dunno,” and Dean’s voice makes that sweet dip into cruelty, into sing-song, high school bully, and Sam tries to steel himself (and fails, as always; Dean knows where to pick at). “Maybe it was. Maybe I’m an asshole like that. Ever thought about that possibility?”

“You’re an asshole all right,” Sam grinds. Tight-lipped smile. “But you don’t mean that.”

“What makes you so sure?” Cock of head. Empty-open expression. “Maybe I’m tired of you.”

Sam breathes through it. Familiar feeling of never-gonna-get-used-to-it. “Don’t,” he murmurs. As if Dean would care.

“Maybe now that he’s finally copped out, I can ditch you. Kick you out like the dog you are.” Sudden, breathless laugh. Dean slaps his own thigh, screws up his face into a grin. “We didn’t even fuck for the, what, past five months? Don’t you _get_ it, Sam? C’mon; why the hell are you still _here_?”

“You don’t mean that.”

Dean’s following laughter is shrill. “Oh my god, just how _retarded_ are—“

One blink and Sam is on top of Dean, hand on throat, other pinning a shoulder. Dean doesn’t fight. Dean’s smile grows wider.

Sam is shaking.

“Oh, gettin’ handsy now, faggot?”

Sam growls, “Stop.”

“C’mon, you know how to do it,” purrs Dean. He turns to present his cheek, cranes his neck in Sam’s grip. Offering. Whispering, “You know you want to.”

It breaks Sam, really, the shock of being here, of doing this. He’s still (or again?) got those tears in his eyes. Whole-body cramp, trembling over this man.

“You can’t even try, can you? Jeez. You’re tragic.” Try to laugh; gets squeezed off, licks his lips that plump up quick with the pressure on his throat. “How’s it feel, huh, Sammy? Letting me talk to you like the dumb bitch you are. Little piece of shit who thinks I give one piece of a fuck for it.”

Sam loosen-tightens his grip, almost-allowed slip of control.

“Remember when I sold you out that first time? Or the time after that? Oh,” sweet choke, dream-roll of eyes somewhere on memory lane back in dreaded Lawrence, “that one was nasty, wasn’t it? Or maybe you enjoyed it. Being used. Maybe enjoyed it when I beat you, too. Liked the way your teeth felt under my knuckles. Thought about worse things. You would’ve let me do all of ’em, wouldn’t you.”

And Sam does. Remember, that is.

There’s things you do for love, and then there’s recklessness, and then there’s sheer insanity.

Sam’s all that, does all that. He can’t help it. And he despises himself, don’t get him wrong. There’s times like this, especially, when his consciousness reminds him—boy, _boy_ , what are you even doing here anymore?

His answer consists of four letters, one dumber than the next, and it’s bigger than all of this shit.

“You disgust me. That’s all I feel for you.” Dean’s eyes fall hooded now, lips tremble-curling with what he’s got for Sam. “Pitiful...useless...piece...of...”

“You can say whatever you want,” Sam says. “I’m not gonna do it.”

Laughter. Sam could squeeze his hand way tighter (oh, he plays with the thought).

“I’m not gonna do it, Dean. I won’t give you that.”

“Killjoy,” grins Dean.

“You want me to hit you,” Sam declares, “so you can turn off whatever’s goin’ on in your head. So it hurts less. So, no. Not gonna do it.”

Sad huff of breath. Dean is ragdoll-pliant, still. “Remember when you used to give me everything?”

“And you took only what you wanted. Yeah.” Quirk of corner of mouth that falls just as quick as it came. “But that’s over. That’s not gonna happen anymore.”

Two hands on Dean’s throat now. Sam’s thumbs press down and for maybe a moment, Dean is stunned.

The corners of Dean’s mouth twitch upwards—and Sam’s hands squeeze.

“Dean. You’re gonna listen to me now.”

Sam’s voice is calm because he himself is calm. Because this is okay, and because he knows what he is doing (has thought about doing it for years, years).

“You think you deserve to suffer. I know you. I know you don’t mean what you say. I know you hate yourself for saying it. If anything, this is you, punishing yourself.”

Dean’s answer, if you can even call it that, is the continued eye contact. The sly smile.

God, Sam really wants to wipe it off his face sometimes.

“I know that every time you hurt me, it’s your stupid, childish, fucked-up game of ‘how far can I go?’. I know you’re testing me.”

Rearranged grip. Sweat; he can’t tell from which one of them, maybe doesn’t matter.

“You want to see me break. But I won’t.” He blinks; his hair falls loose from behind his ear. “I won’t leave you, no matter what. There’s nothing you can do that will make me stop. You’re waiting for that shoe to drop because you don’t trust, you never have, because everything you’ve ever wanted ended up _leaving_.”

Dean’s breathing still is as calm as it ever was. A heartbreak-reminder of John in his hospital bed—waiting for it to end.

He shakes the tension out, right into his hands, into Dean.

“Not me, though. Won’t lose me, Dean. You’re stuck with me just as much as I’m stuck with you.”

Dean opens his mouth in another scoff, but Sam is quicker.

“You think I haven’t _thought_ about leaving? You think it’s fun having to justify us, me, in front of everyone, all the freakin’ time? I _do_ think about it. Did. Several times. All the time. Yesterday. Today. Two minutes ago. I protect us even though I hate it. Even though it reminds me that you’re right with what you’re saying. That I’m exactly that. Dumb. Hopeless.”

Dean’s smile has fallen flat, so Sam picks it up instead.

“But that’s how I am. How I always was, for you. And that’s not gonna change now that John’s gone.”

It’s been hard, defending John in front of a son going ‘just let it go, he doesn’t wanna live anymore anyway’, while tearing himself apart over caring for the three of them, one always and inevitably coming short. Maybe, sometimes, in the darkest hours, thinking: gosh, if it’d just be _over_ already.

But it’s here now, and it’s shit, and nothing changed, and that’s why he’s here.

“We’ve come a long way. Both of us. We have a home together. A _life_.” (Furniture shopping with Dean. Choosing dinner plates with Dean. Installing floors with Dean. Going to friends’ weddings with Dean.) Sam’s mouth pulls into a weird-feeling smile. “You know I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you. You know I’ve loved your dad, because I’ve never had a dad, and because he saw a lonely kid and decided he’d take care of it, and I’m so, so sorry it was _me_ he treated with so much respect, and not you. I’m truly, honestly, so, so sorry, Dean.”

Dean slow-blinks, like a cat.

“I knew what he did to you. What he was _doing_ to you, and I didn’t speak up. I should have. I should have protected you when I had the chance. But I was scared. I thought you would shut me out if I said something against him. I know what family means to you and I saw you hurting. And I know you think that it’s okay to hurt for something this big. You think that’s how it works. It doesn’t, though.”

Sam’s knees shuffle closer to Dean’s sides.

“It won’t be like this from here on.” Sam sniffles (where did that come from?), shakes his head as if making a statement. A decision. “I won’t let you get hurt anymore, by nobody. Especially not yourself.”

“Sob, sob. Tears,” chuckles Dean. Weak, though. Through cotton and heart.

“I mean it,” Sam promises.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“You can never be sure about this kinda stuff.” Scoff. Small eyes. “That’s kinda the point. You can’t.”

“What else do I have to do to prove myself to you?”

Sad, sad smile. Soft hands on Sam’s wrists. “Not gonna work, Sam.”

Sam’s thumbs drag across stubbled neck, jaw. “If I stay with you until one of us dies, will you believe me?”

Dean is still smiling when he asks (and it’s serious), “What if I kill myself when you’re not looking?” and Sam answers, “Then I’ll follow right behind,” without missing a beat.

“And what if I kill _you_?”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Yeah?”

Shake of head. “Jus’ ’cause you can’t say it doesn’t mean I don’t know what I am to you.”

“Hm. Unfair.”

Sam lets himself sink down on top of Dean, and Dean allows it. Arms tug themselves around Sam.

Sam closes his eyes. Dean presses a kiss into his hair.

“I remember,” Dean murmurs after a while, “sitting in that diner with Dad an’ you. After the trip, I mean. I had talked about it with him before, what we wanted and what we should do. Scenarios for if you’d say ‘yes’ and if you’d say ‘no’. ’S what we always did. Escape plans. Suiting ourselves. I thought: what if he wants to leave, man? What would I do if he left?”

Sam flinches unwillingly when he’s moved up, pressed and lifted until he gets that Dean wants to look at him, wants to be looked at.

Dean’s thumb drifts across Sam’s cheek. He says, “I wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t for you, Sam. I don’t think I’ve ever thanked you for that.”

“You don’t have to.”

A painful sound, smirk-smile, frown; a quick come and go, like Dean’s always been, a futile moment. “I’ve spent the last three days stomaching the fact that I won’t be getting a single ‘sorry’ from Dad, ever, so believe me—I _do_ have to.” Two hands on Sam’s face now, holding him. He swallows under Dean’s eyes and there is nothing but fondness to be found there. “Thank you. For sticking with me. Enduring me.”

Hesitant, unpracticed hands on the back of Dean’s. “You’re welcome, I guess.”

Dean doesn’t say:

_I’m sorry for what I did. And what I do. I’m sorry that I am too much of a coward to set things straight. I’m sorry for being stubborn. And disgusting. And not takin’ care’a you._

But Sam can hear it. It’s right there, right under the surface.

And they’re not dead yet, won’t be for another few years. Right?

So he pulls Dean tighter against himself. He can wait, like this.

Like this, the world is in order, even if only for the moment it takes for them to take a deep breath—and keep going.


	2. Sequel

Sam’s breath leaves through his nostrils before he turns to look at Dean. He keeps his hands on the steering wheel; ready.

“Are you sure?”

Dean watches them as they sit on the bench, just barely visible over the distance. He gives a slow nod. His sigh is tense.

One hand from wheel to knee. “Really?”

He turns away to laugh for that, hides his face in his palm. Warns, “Sammy,” and feels how sweat starts to build up along his hairline.

“Don’t ‘Sammy’ me.” The hand squeezes, rubs him. “Okay.”

Dean keeps his eyes closed. Breathe.

“If it’s too much, ring through for a beat or two. I’ll be right back.”

Dean nods. It’s not like they didn’t go over this at least ten times in this past hour. Sam is on quick dial; Dean had him watch as he set it up.

“I’m alright,” Dean states into the car. He feels too full and hollow at once, but it could be worse.

No, really. It won’t get any better than this.

Emphasis comes with a numb hand on top of Sam’s. He squeezes and it turns over for him instantly, both fitting inside of each other, both sweaty. Sam rubs his thumb over the center of Dean’s palm before he lets go, opens the door, gets out of the car, closes the door.

Dean watches him make his way up the narrow path, up to the bench where two faces turn to him for good now (they had been eyeing the car ever since they pulled up on the side of this street). His gaze then drops to his hand, the car door. He is afraid of what will happen if he looks up. What if their eyes meet? He doesn’t know if he could take that.

It’s easier to watch Sammy, broad-backed and uneasy Sammy, long hair and neat jacket. There is movement on the bench when Sam reaches it. An arm, two. Sam is hugging Jensen, Jensen is hugging Sam. They hold on for a moment, then let go. Dean can’t see his brother behind Sam’s wide frame—until Sam bends his knees to hug Michelle.

It’s strange. So strange. Not many details are visible across the distance, of course, but Dean can tell it’s his twin. According to Sam’s tales, Jensen has a nice desk job at a nice company, and it shows—he doesn’t seem to have aged as much as Dean did. Nevertheless, Dean can tell Jensen is not alright.

He looks away again with an uneasy exhale, puts all weight into where his forehead leans against the cold glass of the window. Breathe. It’s alright. It’s alright. You can do this. Everything is alright.

Nothing is alright though, of course. When Dean opens his eyes again, he finds Sammy cradling Michelle on his arm with her legs around his waist, finds Jensen laughing this sad little laugh one makes to please someone. Dean’s chest pulls tight. It’s nobody’s fault, but maybe that’s what’s making everything worse. They never were good with helplessness, were they?

Sam and Jensen talk for a while. Probably about how the funeral was, if Jensen needs anything. Dean knows Jensen will shake his head before he actually does; sees it in the way his gaze lowers itself shortly in advance. A hand raises, combs through Michelle’s hair. It _had_ to be blonde, Dean guesses. No other way.

Jensen listens intently as Sam speaks, gives little nods, seems to ask questions (Dean can’t hear anything through glass and over distance, doesn’t need to). Those eyes become restless at some point, and Dean knows they are talking about him now. Sam fidgets, rearranges the child on his arm. Dean looks away too late.

Just a glimpse of those eyes, the _glimpse_ of a glimpse, and Dean’s stomach seems to turn itself inside out. He curls in on himself, hides. Not in the car, not in the car.

Just a little. You can take this. It’s nothing. You’ll be alright. Sammy is right there. You two are gonna drive home in only a few minutes and you both took the day off tomorrow, enough time to calm down; you’ve got this.

Dean doesn’t dare to look up again. He stares right through the car’s interior. All he allows to exist in his perception is the pulsing beat of his heart in his ears, his throat—gotta calm it down, get it back down to where it belongs, calm, calm, breathe, you told him you’ve got this; if you cannot even handle _this_ , how are you ever gonna _speak_ to your brother? You promised it, you promised it to yourself.

And you _want_ to see him again, to hold him in your arms and tell him that you’re sorry his husband died, that he had to bury him, that the little girl they adopted will have to be raised just like you and him had been raised—by a single, mourning father. You want him to cry against your shoulder and tell him you’ll do whatever he needs you to do, that he and little Michelle can move in with Sam and you, that you’ll manage somehow…if he even _wants_ that. Which he probably doesn’t. Sam told you there is a nice house in the suburbs, a garden, a pool. Yours and Sam’s two guestrooms would be too small. Little girls needs their space, you guess.

Movement, close by. Sam’s worried eyes, forehead in deep wrinkles; always for Dean. Michelle holds on, bounces with Sam’s long steps. Her eyes are on Dean. Dean feels pale.

Nevertheless, he watches them approach, doesn’t shake his head nor makes any other effort to sign his disapproval. The kid is not too much to take, will be okay. He can take this.

Their voices are muffled by distance and a shut car door. The closer they come, the more details Dean takes in from his somehow-niece. Photos and descriptions are one thing to go by, but everything is different right in front of your eyes.

“Is uncle Dee sick?”

“A little, Mish. He’s sad about your dad, too, you know.”

“Oh. Okay.”

She’s pale, not too thin anymore for a former emergency case. Dean can see a familiar distance in her features—the distrust of a pouty mouth and big, blue eyes. Yeah, despite intense therapy right from the very first day, it’s a miracle that she’s allowing others to get close to her. There’s only so much care and love can repair (Dean relates). He knows exactly why it had to be this girl for Jensen and Jared. There had been no other way.

“There we go,” he hears right next to him, straightens himself in the seat, clears his throat. It feels too dry, his eyes too wet. Michelle is put down and Sam opens the passenger door.

“Hi, uncle Dee.”

He forgets to smile as he says, “Hi,” collects himself, puts it on. “Hi, baby. Hey.”

She doesn’t hug him. “You don’t look too good.”

Her gloved fingers find the one of Dean’s hands closest to her. He gently turns it until Michelle’s moves as well. Their fingertips end up resting on each other.

“I’ll be alright, just a little tired. But I’m glad I came. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Michelle keeps her gaze on the lines of his palm. “Won’t you come see Dad?”

“Not today,” he smiles. “Maybe next time.”

“Don’t you wanna see him?”

“He does,” Sam answers for him. Dean lets out a breathless laugh. What would he do without this man? “Michelle, didn’t you want to say something to uncle Dean?”

“Oh,” she exclaims. Like a little bird. Dean loves her already. “Thank you for the Christmas present, uncle Dee.”

“Did you like it?”

“Yes. A lot!”

“‘A lot’,” Dean repeats, fondly. He looks up at Sam who watches with slightly shiny eyes, and he blinks before he looks for Michelle’s face. Definitely Jensen’s girl, yeah. So bold. “Great, baby. I’m glad. Your uncle Sammy gave me the hint, to be fair.”

“I know,” Michelle counters. She raises her chin a bit, making her look like the spoiled little princess everyone would love her to feel like. Baby steps. They’ll do what they can. “If you come with Sammy next weekend, we can play with it together.”

Dean loves how she doesn’t smile despite her excitement. Just like them at that age. He smiles bright enough for the both of them. “Not that soon, baby. Sorry. A little longer.”

She frowns. “How much longer?”

“Maybe next summer.”

Her frown deepens. “That’s not _a little_.”

“C’mere,” he chuckles. She leans into his open arms instantly, no hesitation. He hugs her softly, never too much pressure, enough for her to withdraw if she wanted to. She doesn’t. She smells like fruity children’s shampoo, winter and Jensen. Dean has to hold himself back from squeezing her.

“Are you sure you don’t wanna say hi to Dad?” his niece asks as he lets her go.

Again, he shakes his head. “Not yet. But can you tell him something from me, baby?”

She gives the request two seconds of consideration, her arms still on his shoulders. She nods eventually. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Her coat is puffy under his hands. He feels light-headed. “I, uh... Just tell him that it was nice seein’ you two. An’ that I hope you guys’ll be alright.”

“That’s _two_ things.”

“Ah,” he groans, grins, laughs. “In that case: tell him both, would you.”

She nods confidently.

“Okay. Your daddy’s surely missin’ you already. Go give him a hug from me.”

“Three!”

“Sorry,” Dean laughs. He hugs her again, tighter now. She lets him. “Sorry,” he repeats, much, much more quiet this time.

“Bye bye,” Michelle says before she heads back up the graveyard.

Dean imagines he says it too, but Sam’s ‘bye’ is louder in his ears. He keeps watching Michelle as she walks, gives Jensen’s silhouette a short peek while pulling the door to his right closed.

Just like him, Jensen is watching Michelle. He doesn’t smile where he waits. Dean can imagine that a child like Michelle can’t be fooled by polite masks. Dean knows Jensen and him couldn’t either.

It’s good that he came along, good that he remained sitting in the car. At other, earlier times, this would neither have been enough nor safe. It can take place now, here, with Jensen being over there and Dean being here, without Dean losing himself. ‘Next summer’ probably was a generous promise, but maybe it’s okay to dream big every once in a while.

Sam’s hand on his shoulder brings Dean back into reality. Only then, he notices that Sam is speaking, only then hears. “—re you okay?”

He nods, but Sam’s hand brushes his cheek, up his forehead. Dean feels sweat easing the way.

Sam blinks at him. “You’re freezing _,_ ” he states. A shocked silence before Sam wipes his hand on his jeans, feels Dean’s forehead again, jeans, starts the engine. “And shaking. And _soaked_.”

He didn’t notice the shaking until Sam mentioned it. How long has it been going on? Michelle didn’t look freaked out; thank God. “Jeez, relax. I’m gonna live, Sammy.” The words feel slurred, weak. All he senses is warmth, fuzziness. It’s good.

At other, earlier times, Dean would have run back to Jensen in an instant, without ever looking back. Those times, along with a lot of things, are gone now—but that’s okay. Sam is what keeps Dean from feeling stripped bare.

“We’re gonna get you home now.”

“Mmmh... _coffee_.”

“Solid food first.”

“Burgers?”

“Think I saw a drive-in on the way here. I’ve got you.”

The car pulls into the lazy Sunday traffic. Sam makes Dean forget about how this is not the one and only Chevrolet anymore with how he drives this new vehicle with this certain kind of raw elegance he emits, as always.

Dean’s hand finds its place on top of Sam’s on the gear stick. There is no need for rings when they have each other like this. But it would look good on them, wouldn’t it.

Dean breathes, “Do you have any idea how much I love you?”

A smile is all Sam gives as an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're done here now—I've inteded [the last timestamp](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5208836/chapters/19697350) to be read after "I'm Proud Of Us", so maybe you should go there now. Or you come from there and see this message here now. Anyhow, I love you. 
> 
> Thank you for sticking with this verse through all this time. It's taken a long time to finish this up, but here we finally are. Thank you for going through this adventure with me and the boys. It's been a mess and it's never been and never will be okay, but they did and do their best, they keep fighting, and sometimes that's all that's left, and it's okay. Have a good day, stay safe, be merry. Hellhound over and out.


End file.
